


periodic

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Male Slash, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just chemicals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chlorine

_“Bet you never saw this coming.”_

The smell of chlorine; burning, _pale green_ , cruelly tickling the hairs in his nostrils - Sherlock  can still taste it, years later, bitter on his palette. 

Each time he catches the scent of it in the air, now (passing a gym, a stolen trip to St Bart’s in the dead of night), Sherlock catches his breath. His brain pulls him back to the cool echo of the swimming pool, to the sharp heel _click_ of Moriarty’s fine shoes, to John’s face; creased with control, eyes screaming Morse code. And Sherlock had almost missed it, the quick dot _dash_ , momentarily consumed by unyielding claustrophobic doubt.

But then, no, just cheap trickery, and how could he ever have doubted John? Steady, loyal, everything John. It seems ludicrous to even think it, away from the ripple light of still water and the press of a gun in his hand. Sherlock hasn’t faltered in him since, not for a flicker of a moment.

Even now, with his forehead resting against the tarnished door of 221B, even now he trusts him. Sherlock knows for certain, (and he is very good at knowing definite things, despite his hands trembling and his brow cooling with sweat), that John will forgive him. He replays John’s swimming pool face, recounts the lines in his head, remembers the plush of his parker beneath his fingertips and the _swoosh_ slide of it across the tiled floor. Sherlock recalls all of this in his moments of fear, in moments where he knows John will pull through but he needs the memory as evidence.

Sherlock is not used to this. He has spent a year and a half alone. He hopes disappointing John is like riding a bicycle; hopes that he won’t forget how to handle the crash, won’t forget how to pull them both back up when they’re left bloody and wounded.

For normal, standard people, the reunion would be easy. Painful on the surface, sure, with fighting and shouting and screaming and then eventually the reprise; but Sherlock is not normal. John is not normal, either, _not really_. John is extraordinary in a way that Sherlock never will be, and that fact pulls Sherlock towards him like gravity. Keeps him hooked and in orbit, will never let him go, even though he is apt at surviving alone. He doesn’t need John, what a _huge_ mistake to assume, no - he wants him. Wants him on some level that he cannot calculate, and that’s dangerous for a genius - dangerous and captivating.

Sherlock has been stood here so long that the grains of the wood are creating grooves in his skin, pretty patterns of growth on his forehead. Somewhere in there John breathes and lives; _in the kitchen, washing out a cup, tapping his foot gently_. The very thought alone makes Sherlock ache, makes him crunch his eyes tight shut until tiny sparkly spiders dance behind his lids. Tea is something he has missed on a fundamental level, as an indicator for how well or not their relationship is faring - scalding hot on his tongue (things are going beautifully, thanks, and John is blogging torturously slowly whilst Sherlock simply watches and thinks), barely warm (something under the microscope needs more attention and he is nodding in all the right places but they both know he isn’t listening), and nose wrinkling cold (the case is more important, the work will always come first, “ _kindly disappear_ "). 

He has been away for so long that things have changed, though. The floorboard directly in front of the door has developed a creak and it strains uncomfortably loud as he pulls himself up straight. Sherlock freezes, unexpected. John has heard that, he knows - _he knows and now John knows_. John’s footsteps come fast and so light, ghosting along the floorboards on the opposite side of the door. Sherlock has seconds to move and he could use them to press his heel down and run like shit, he could make it with time to spare. But he doesn’t. 

He catastrophically fails to move, and he is blinded momentarily by the light from the windows inside, before his eyes adjust and he braces himself for the fallout.

Except, it doesn’t happen. Instead he is faced with a woman, wide eyed and fair haired and just the right size for John. A woman who seems to know him, even though Sherlock can barely recognise himself. She gapes, Sherlock runs.

With a practiced ease he takes two stairs at a time, hurtling downwards, downwards - _idiot, idiot, how could he be so stupid? Thinking the lightness of steps belonged to a sorrowful food deprived John, but John would never stop eating because he’s a Doctor and he’s always telling Sherlock eat this, drink that, just a little bit please and God, hell, there’s a woman, a Goddamn woman living in their flat. It’s their home, it’s still theirs…_

Not anymore, though. Sherlock knows it’s not. The thought drives him to call Mycroft, who sends a car, for once without question.

In the back seat Sherlock Holmes squeezes his fists against the leather upholstery. He catalogues the texture and the sound of it squeaking against his knuckles and determines it to be fake. He thinks of the woman, her long and slightly damp hair (recently showered then, the tea cup was for her) and he curses his own naivety. 

The smell of chlorine, _not pale green anymore, but dirty red_ , clouds his mind. Sherlock recalls John’s swimming pool face; the wrinkles branched from the folds of his skin, the freckles spread across the expanse just alongside his nose, his eyes, hard and loyal and _John_.

Then it morphs into feminine cheekbones and curves, and Sherlock - for only the second time in his life - doubts John Watson.


	2. chlorine

Well, the tea is ruined.

And that’s the only thing John can really think about, the only shard of information managing to penetrate through the maelstrom of revelation circling above his head.

Mary is still talking, some reassuring words in such a soothing voice that John’s never heard before. Something about _it’s okay_ , and _I know you’re in shock_ , and other buzzing noises that flit just outside of his mental reach.

The tea is ruined because it’s on the floor. Because John let go of it after innocently enquiring who was at the door, and receiving an answer that was impossible, untrue, _the worst of fictions_.

Oh, now there’s a slim soft hand on his forearm, and he supposes he should be feeling comforted, should be talking, at least. Wave after wave of numb crashes over him and John’s sure that his very veins are shaking, that his pores are bleeding confusion and terror.

There is a sudden and overwhelming desire to be alone, so he tells her;

“Can you leave, _please_.” Except the please sounds more like _now_ , and he would cringe at his own cruelty if the world wasn’t spectacularly swallowing him whole. He is allowed to be selfish in this moment.

Mary stumbles, falters - John can feel her hurt in the fingers tightening against his skin, can hear tones of sadness in each syllable she speaks, but he can’t make out the words.

“Get out.” He almost shouts (actually, he _does_ shout), and he hears his own voice as if it is someone else; someone distant and mean and breaking. Right now John hasn’t the capacity to care.

It takes twelve seconds after the front door closes for him to step out of the puddle of muddy tea. John moves to the sink, turns on the cold tap and washes his hands twice. Then he presses his forehead into the smooth of the cupboard above it, stares down at the worn metal basin at his own tarnished shadowed reflection.

From the storm, he pulls out three of Mary’s words;

_It was Sherlock._

 

//

 

The first thing he does, on pure instinct, is text Mycroft.

_Where? - JW_

John doesn’t get a reply for almost five minutes, he feels each second. He knows in the back of his mind that he isn’t giving himself enough time to process, but that’s irrelevant. How can he sit and think when there’s a dead man somewhere, walking around as if he is alive?

_With me. - MH_

Christ, he really doesn’t have time for Mycroft’s bullshit right now. John’s in the middle of typing his next text (he wishes he could type faster in situations like this) when another buzz comes.

_Diogenes Club. Kindly leave your Browning at home. - MH_

With a growl, he empties his pockets onto the floor and sends his phone along with the debris. John grabs his jacket and catches sight of himself in the mirror, looking far away from anything he has ever been before. The ghosts in his eyes scare him, so he turns and leaves.

There’s no surprise at all when he finds a car waiting outside 221B, and as he slides over the cool leather (fake, _shocking_ Mycroft) he hopes to hell it isn’t the same one Sherlock escaped in, an hour beforehand.

More than a year and a half has passed since John last stepped foot in the club, but the attendants still recognise him, still give him a curt nod and a wide berth. He strides with intent and anger, through each pretentiously decorated room filled with equally pretentious men, and then -

“Do me a favour Mycroft, and do _shut up_.”

The slightly ajar door sways in his vision for a moment, the floorboards seem to shift where he stands and he thinks perhaps he will fall to his knees. But he is John Watson, doctor and soldier, so he stays on his feet and squares his shoulders, raises his chin. The baritones of Sherlock’s voice seep through the tough wood and right into his bones, make his stomach ache and burn. _Jesus, he’s not ready for this_.

The two brothers turn from the light of the window at his presence. Everything brims over, everything screams, as John looks upon Sherlock. He knows time is supposed to stand still, at moments like this; instead it rewinds, accelerates in the wrong direction until he feels he is spinning faster than the Earth itself.

Mycroft touches Sherlock’s elbow gently before leaving, takes the cigarette dangling forgotten between his brother’s fingers and stubs it dead on his way out. The room feels a degree more chaotic as the door closes behind him.

John doesn’t move, or breathe.

Sherlock does _both_ ; takes a deep inhale and turns back to the window.

“Apologies if I startled Mary,” Sherlock begins, and John is so captivated by the bass and tone of his words that he lets him continue. “I didn’t anticipate her presence.”

The novelty of Sherlock’s voice wears off though, or rather, he begins to pay attention to the situation. And how is _that_ the first thing he says after one and a half years of nothing?

“You’re a fucking idiot.” John seethes, trembles as he takes another tentative step into the room, fearful that the gravity of the man _with his damn back to him_ will pull him too far in. It’s not enough, it’s not what he means to articulate, but it’s all he can manage.

Sherlock says nothing but John can hear a whole world full of thoughts pushing against the walls of the room, ebbing at the edges of his torso, vibrating the furniture. Crowding, pulsating, consuming the air. It’s oddly comforting to hear it again, eating away at the silence settled deep in John’s heart.

John traces the line of Sherlock’s back, the silky tight weave of his fine blazer, the contrast where curls meet fabric, dark. His eyes, though - John wants his eyes and maybe then some kind of reality will dawn on him, some kind of sense.

“Look at me.”

The rise and fall of Sherlock’s shoulders as he breathes deep is minute, a whisper, but John sees it. He observes it, takes as much in as he can through the haze of his full head, before the man speaks again and he’s lost -

“I can’t.”

_(Oh, God.)_

John’s hand falls to steady himself on the wall, because that - _breathed and broken_ \- that says a whole mess of things. Sherlock’s intelligence knows no bounds and even now, at the crux of all things, _even now_ he manages to push and compact everything into two words.

As a feeble attempt to reign himself back in, John presses his fist against his lips, thinks that screwing his eyes tight closed might be the solution, but of course that just makes things worse, blocks out one sense so the other can rage.

So instead he takes several steps forwards and around Mycroft’s desk, Sherlock turns with the unexpected movement (satisfying) and John punches him in the jaw.

And hell if it’s a predictable move; Sherlock’s probably been expecting it at some point in the proceedings but it is gloriously swift, John can feel his bones bruise a little at the sharp contact, can feel the tear of jawline skin, his fist beautifully burning with emotion and thinks _yes_.

Sherlock flexes his jaw in reply, pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek to test the damage.

There are words on his lips, John can see them, so he pushes him rough against the window by the lapels, shakes them off because he doesn’t want to hear.

“Don’t even _try_ , you-“

But it turns out John doesn’t want to hear his _own_ words, either, so he needles his focus in on Sherlock’s eyes, and understands a plethora of things; a year and a half has aged Sherlock three, things are the same yet poles apart in the storms of his pupils (dilated), and mostly, _most of all_ , he sees reflected _himself_.

John thinks how easy it would be to collide with Sherlock; send them both soaring and careening and falling, falling into nothing where they belong. Then he remembers red gravel, the hard of a pavement beneath his knees, _Goodbye, John_.

The press of Sherlock’s thumb to his bottom lip is brief. John darts his tongue out to taste - metallic, copper, ( _blood, B positive_ ) - and the bitterness stings the inside of his mouth, swells in it. Then he moves two fingers to Sherlock’s wrist, presses them to his pulse and squeezes.

John’s soul is a tyrant, he is not strong enough to tell it _no_. It dictates his breath to hitch, his fingers to run from wrist to push up the sleeves of Sherlock’s shirt and dig into the fleshy muscle of his bicep.

It commands: _want_

So, he listens.


	3. oxygen

It’s almost a chemical reaction; dangerous and clear in Sherlock’s eyes, in the collision of their guilt ridden breaths. And John doesn’t want to, he really doesn’t, but it’s a pull of gravity and a tug of war between his heart and his head, his conscience, moral compass giving way to an acute, desperate, _white hot need_.

John tries to think of Mary, drags ghostly images of her face up in his brain but it’s not working, it’s not working because Sherlock’s hand is wrapped around his neck, tipping his head up just a precise enough angle to slip his tongue into his mouth, _clever clever,_ and John really cannot think past the sensation of nails at the base of his skull and full cool lips on his own - it’s as if he has been needing this the whole time without knowing it, as if his whole life before and after and during has all been for this, for Sherlock, this man who he hates so much (so much even though his own hands are twisting into the expensive fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, sneaking fingers through the gaps between his buttons). Oh God _oh sodding fuck_ , everything is caving in on him, each cell of his own brain is doubling and expanding and filling his bones fit to burst; all he can taste is damn Sherlock, can feel the sharps of his teeth and yes, he’s kissing back, he’s trying somehow to find a way to be _closer than close_ to him, being part of him even though he has been a part of him all this time anyway.

John can feel skin now, contact against his own, negative to positive and a charge sparks between them, Sherlock rolls his hips just right and John would push them through the glass if he could, he would get himself out of here if he had the energy or the power or the _pure will_ to do so - he knows this is it, even though he’s never actually thought about it passed a hurried wank in the shower, _this is it,_ all he’s ever existed for -

Then, Sherlock removes his lovely mouth from John’s rib, pauses mid glorious stroke of his tongue.

“You shouldn’t be doing this”

John can see him breaking a little, though, cracking like fine porcelain with each husky rough sand paper word, and _screw everything_.

“Oh God, God, I know, _I don’t care_ , Sherlock, I don’t care, I don’t care…”

And he keeps repeating the words with his eyes closed, with his fingers finally searching with enough force to slip Sherlock’s shirt buttons free, to pull him roughly against him by his waist and away from the window - and he’s glad the walls are steady, _because he certainly is not._

Sherlock circles John’s wrists and presses them into the wall at his side, doesn’t let go until John opens his eyes again and finds a knee between his thighs, finds Sherlock’s chest naked and beginning to sweat and _Jesus_.

“Are you sure?”

And it’s such a small small question, so quiet from Sherlock’s mouth and it’s perhaps the most genuine thing to ever come from those lips. John’s brain attempts to catch up with himself, rolling in guilt and need and the ache of his cock straining against the inside of his leg.

He nods his head minutely, can see the same arousal swirling and morphing dangerous in the pits of Sherlock’s pupils, crawling across his cheekbones. Of course John cares, really, cares what he’s doing and who he’s breaking and what he’s ruining completely. But he’s also starkly, like an icy bucket of water over his head, aware of what he is gaining, what he’s capturing, _how long he’s actually wanted this for_.

There are some occasions in life, John knows, where you have to listen to your heart even if it means doing the wrong thing.

(He thinks of Sherlock, stepping off the roof of St Bart’s.)

“Yes. Always, yes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock trails fingernails over his wrists, a warning to stay put and John realises it’s not just out of some carnal possessiveness (of which there is _a lot_ ) but also, _somehow_ , so that after it all, in the throes of tormenting guilt, John can reassure himself that he did nothing, that he was taken, that _Sherlock took him_ and there was nothing he could do.

It’s perhaps the kindest thing Sherlock’s ever done for him.

John can’t help but watch as dark curls splay across his own chest, as Sherlock touches him like no one ever has. It’s not so much crazed passion as it is a statement, a claim, a bid for rights to something that John has always given freely to him anyway.

And he’s never thought about Sherlock as a sexual person. In his rare flickers of fantasy John’s always the one with his teeth to the man’s shoulder, with his hands in places they should never be.  Now he thinks about it though, with his fingernails scratching at Mycroft’s fancy wallpaper, it makes sense - in every aspect of his life Sherlock is headstrong and clever, always chasing chaos and pushing the limits, and it’s the same with sex, obviously; judging by the low rumble of harsh breaths in John’s ear, and the taste of his own sweat on Sherlock’s lips as they kiss.

“Thought you-“ John gestures uselessly with his chin at the space below Sherlock’s belt, who looks up with a frustrated groan. “you know, _transport_.”

The man has the audacity in his current situation - swollen lips, heavy breath, quite obvious erection - to smirk at him. Sherlock flicks open John’s belt buckle and draws it out from its loops ridiculously slowly.

“Yes, my body is transport, you’re right” He whispers, breathes it into the shell of John’s ear as the belt falls to the floor. “But I can’t run on empty.”

John gulps without really meaning to, because he knows all too well what the next words are going to be, and the next place Sherlock’s hands are going to be. The sound of his zip cuts almost embarrassingly through the tense air between them.

“You’re my _fuel_ , John.”

The helpless moan reverberating from John’s throat gets caught by Sherlock’s lips, echoes against the walls of his mouth and stains his teeth.

Even though John is a good man (as good as a human is _capable_ of being) he will not rue this. There will be shame and sleepless nights, but no regret. Above all else John is honest, and he certainly will not lie to himself.

John moves his fingers from the safeguard of the wall, and threads them through Sherlock’s astral dark hair.  


  


  



End file.
